


a tortured saint fed to the flies

by ruinate



Series: nothing to see / all beauty destroyed [2]
Category: Dream Daddy: A Dad Dating Simulator
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Creatures & Monsters, Antichrist, Cambion, Cannibalism, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Demon Children, Gen, Joseph is a Good Father, Not A Fix-It, Starvation, Trans Male Character
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-16
Updated: 2017-08-16
Packaged: 2018-12-06 18:10:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,743
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11606127
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ruinate/pseuds/ruinate
Summary: mary dies on a wednesday morning.





	a tortured saint fed to the flies

**Author's Note:**

> so on july 15th, when the first image of christie and christian came out, i talked about creepy antichrist kids on my nsfw twitter so haha. that’s what this is - the kids aren’t vessels or fragments of joseph - they’re literal antichrist children.
> 
> as a prelude, this fic is entirely based on personal fan interpretations. joseph's portrayed as a trans man and inspiration for this fic was pulled from a segment in a horror anthology called XX.

It’s grief that ruins their appetites, he tells himself. Christie and Christian aren’t eating in remembrance, mourning. It’s normal, he thinks. Everything about them is normal. Normal and as saccharine as every American-made apple pie, every falsified nuclear family image planted in their heads from the end of World War Two, exemplified by mass media and religion. 

The nuclear family - falling apart as threads of time and sand are waterlogged with the rush of wine and the stink of marital affairs. A marriage plagued with ruination and deceit and wrath and now, death. Mary’s death was almost unnoticeable to the member of the cul-de-sac, too preoccupied with their own lives to notice. Damien and Robert were the only two, and even then, Damien’d been the one to respectfully ask. The news broke finally when they saw Joseph leading his children out to the car, dressed in black. Crish in his older brother’s arms, Christie’s face obscured with a half veil, a little barely there thing she’d cried and begged for, her hand clasped tightly within her father’s. 

_ Oh Joseph, I’m so sorry for your loss.  _ The newest neighbour murmured, perhaps still affected by the loss of his own spouse.  _ If you need anything, Amanda and I are here.  _ He’d reached out to lay a hand on the minister’s arm, brows furrowing as Joseph jerked away, as if he’d been scalded. Presumptuous tentative touches from someone who had never known the woman he had - had only seen the broken shell of her, not the exuberation woman who’d grown miserable with her Arcadian lifestyle and turned to liquor to numb her existence.

The services leaves so little to the imagination; a small affair, lead by the minister of their small church. With the exception of the children and Joseph, there is almost no one - a few stragglers from the bar she was known to frequent, and Robert, burning his eyes into the younger father’s back. Damien sits a few pews over from the children, black gloved hands clasped in prayer. It’s ultimately an empty, half-hearted affair done for looks only; expected, Joseph thinks, for those who saw only an unrepentant shrew, barely a moment sober.   

He expects public tears from Crish and Christie, but they don’t cry. Staring blankly at the minister, who spews pleasantries and niceties that never actually mean anything and almost entirely made up to prove that Mary was not just a depressed alcoholic. His daughter sniffles, tightening her hold on her father’s hand, baby-fat cheeks resting on his shoulder. Mary had never been a kind woman, never been someone who welcomed the church life - she was miserable with it, had always been. When she’d snuck into his seminary apartment, climbing up the lattice, carting a bottle of vodka -  _ come out, Joseph. I’ve missed you  _ \- he’d tried to tell her that he had to study _.  _ When she’d wrapped her fingers around the nape of his neck, mouth pressing just messily enough against the corner of his as she laughed, and he felt that he was actually in love with her, that he would give up Hell and Heaven on Earth for her - that was the Mary he knew they did not know.

“If any members of Mary’s family would like to come up to say goodbye to her, you may do so now.” 

Expected like storybook endings, Joseph rises, leading his children towards the coffin. Still blankly, they stare down at their mother, powdered and filled with sawdust. They dyed her roots to the same colour as her hair, ashamed that barely mid thirties woman had so much grey she was aging far faster. Still face painted like a doll’s, the youth minister tries not to bark out a laugh. Mary had always purposefully made herself look disheveled, a mess, to lure boys in and force Joseph to yell at her for not keeping appearances, thriving on making her side of the bond as difficult as possible. Neither would let go - a once exciting blushing romance turned sour with a life devoted to a god and children, the miscarriage of another child, so sour they could not stomach not to exist alongside the other. Could not breathe without the knowledge that if they were both miserable, then they were happy. 

Christie leans towards her mother, eyes half squinting at her. “Did you ever really love me, Mommy?” So soft that only her brothers and father catch it, venomous and sad all at once. She clutches tightly at Joseph’s hand, blunt little pink nails digging crescents into his skin. Smart as her brothers, only distantly aware of the type of blood running through her veins, knowing that there something that made Mary both love and hate her, her and Christian and Chris.  

“Bye Mom.” Chris mutters, echoed softly by his younger brother, with a tacked on second syllable. Crish says nothing, leaning over the edge of the coffin to stare down at her. Maybe, Joseph thinks, watching his youngest, struggle to lean over, he would miss her. The only child of theirs not born from him, made not from his womb - a testament to Mary’s adulterous affair with the same man he’d slept with. Although, he supposes, he was one to talk - letting himself be used and filled whenever He wanted it. Chris bends down to lift his younger brother, to let him get a good final look at his mother. He’d never remember her - vague impressions of soft kisses and warmth, whisked away as dreams and false memories. 

Crish squirms in his brother’s arms, so much like his mother and  _ Robert _ , staring into the casket at his mother, made to look like a mirror image of what she would have been life. Reluctantly, Chris leans him down, silent as a grave as his brother presses a soft kiss to his mother’s cheek. “Love you, mama.” He mutters softly, as he wraps his small arms around his brother’s neck, pulled away from her corpse. A moment pauses Christie leads her brothers back to the pew, hands folding over her lap, keeping her head down. 

Staring down at his dead wife, his lips purse, heart still pushing blood through his veins. He has no words that he would like to say to her, nothing that would make him feel better. The appearance of the good loving husband is enough to push him to lean over the casket, lips twitching in a kiss against her forehead. A hand settles along the brittle edge of her hair, cupping her head as the pain of losing her strikes once at his chest. Years ago, before the children, he thinks they could have truly been happy - lying on a beach in the tropics, the plastic glasses of margaritas and glass bottles of Coronas sprawled in the white sands. “Stay safe,” he whispers softly against her skin - the Eternal King would guide her to her place of rest.

The procession is but the one car, the minivan they’d purchased when it was confirmed they were having twins, appearances fabricated to make life easier. Escorted by a policeman who looks uncomfortable and saddened by the single car compromised of her immediate family, the act of lowering Mary to the ground is done as quickly as expected, a few words and a handful of dirt from each child, and it was over. Over and dead, buried six feet under dirt with a calla lily placed atop the grave.

The somber mood set between them falters as the twins jump into the third row of seats, situating themselves in their own booster seats and buckling.  _ Their covers need to be replaced _ , Joseph thinks, as Christie pulls at the ripping cotton of her booster seat. Chris climbs into his own seat, leaning his forehead against the cool glass, staring out the window. Behind him, the twins pull their bottled juices out of their cup holders and down them, as if they were dehydrated, swallowing fast enough to make their stomachs ache. He doesn’t reprimand them, too bone deep tired to even consider it - sleeping for years calls to him, begging for him to lie down and just not exist.

“Let’s go home and make dinner.” Joseph murmurs, shifting the plastic buckles and straps keeping Crish safe, before handing him the plush dinosaur he’d been reaching for. Before his children can answer, he slides the door closed and makes his way to the driver’s seat. A hand hesitates on the door handle -  _ I could smoke right now.  _ He thinks, disgusted by the very idea.  _ I would like to smoke and drink, but I can’t.  _ Rubbing at his eyes, he opens the door, sliding in to crank the car and pull out of the cemetery.

“We’re not hungry…” Christian answers, reaching over the empty middle seat to grasp his sister’s hand. “We just want to go home and play with Wednesday.” Named after the Addams family character, the twins had a fondness for their mutilated doll - the one Joseph had had to restitch time and time again, stuff it with the polyfill he kept underneath the liquor cabinet - that rivaled Christie’s love of surgery and mutilation.  

Joseph frowns, disappointment quick to mask itself on his features, even though his children wouldn’t see it from their seats. He wouldn’t dare look back, not until he’s stopped at the red light at the turn of their church. Arm on the back of the passenger seat, he turns to the backseat, looking from oldest child to youngest daughter.

“You don’t want to make you braised chicken for dinner tonight? You love when I cook chicken for you.” Worry worms its way through his bones, submersed by the sudden honking from the car behind them. The light’s green.

Christie’s childlike fingers reach up to dig the comb out of her hair, letting the half updo tumble out - the veil attached comes just as easy, no longer masking the sunny tresses. She thumbs at the silver clip, before sliding her hand into her brother’s, squeezing. “Not hungry.” She mumbles, worrying her bottom lip between her teeth. 

“Chris?” Panic frays at the edges of his resolve, Joseph glances up in the rearview mirror at his oldest son. Glancing at his father, Chris darts his gaze away before fluttering closed. “You’re not hungry?”

“No…” He mutters, close eyes blocking out the sunlight filtering through their windows. His hand settles along his stomach, fingers curling and uncurling around his shirt. “I’m not hungry.”

**Author's Note:**

> [twitter](https://twitter.com/ruinatewrites) / [ko-fi](http://ko-fi.com/ruinate)


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